


"Of course I remembered..."

by CinderEmber



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair Telephone Game, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5773858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinderEmber/pseuds/CinderEmber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair isn't really used to people listening when he goes on about things. Aedan isn't used to people needing reassurance that he's their friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Of course I remembered..."

**Author's Note:**

> Submitted to [The Alistair Telephone Game](http://alistairtelephonegame.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr!

“Alistair? Can I speak with you for a moment?” Aedan’s voice was even-toned and calm, much as it often was when the nobleman spoke. His voice came from just behind, and a little to the left of Alistair, and he turned his head to look at his fellow Warden.

They had quarreled earlier in the evening. What a fine mess that must have looked – two half-starved boys playing at being grown men, shouting at the top of their lungs at each other. He’d just been so angry with Aedan. Alistair hadn’t understood how the noble Warden could have convinced himself that murdering Arl Eamon’s son in cold blood had been the right decision. It had taken Aedan, red in the face and snarling, shouting, “It’s not as if I enjoyed it, Alistair. Stop look at me like I’ve suddenly become some sadistic murderer!” to bring them to an awkward, apologetic silence. Standing there, staring at one another with embarrassed grimaces, Aedan had tried again to explain why he had made his decision, and this time Alistair had made the effort to listen, rather than let his anger deafen him.

“What is it, Cousland? It’s not my turn to cook dinner again, is it? I could have sworn it was Zevran’s…” Alistair glanced across the camp to where Zevran was slicing carrots into rounds with deft flicks of his knife. The assassin hummed as he worked, too quiet for Alistair to hear the melody from this distance, and he caught a slice of carrot that tried to escape the pot with a quick hand before it landed in the dirt.

Aedan followed Alistair’s gaze and shook his head. The corner of his mouth turning up in half a smile as he spoke. “No, it is Zevran’s turn for dinner tonight. I’m not certain any of us wish to stomach your stew more than once in a week.” The expression softened the criticism into a friendly tease, and Alistair couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

 “Yes, well, they didn’t exactly prioritize cooking lessons in the monastery.” Aedan’s soft chuckle at his joke made Alistair smile wider. He climbed to his feet, turning to face him as he brushed the dirt from his knees. “Well, you don’t want to talk with me about my substandard cooking skills, what did you want to talk with me about?”

“I found something that I thought might belong to you.” From a pouch on his belt, Aedan pulled a handful of silver chain. Into Alistair’s outstretched hand, he dropped a silver emblem of Andraste's Flame. The surface of the amulet was riddled with cracks, with tiny beads of glue along the edges, as if someone with an incredible amount of patience had gathered the shattered pieces and carefully glued them all back together.

“What’s this?” Alistair had to move quickly to avoid dropping the necklace as the chain ran through his fingers and tried to take the amulet with it. He cupped it in both hands, loops of silver dangling between his fingers. Even as cracked as it was, the silver flame was so familiar, sort of like… “This is my mother’s amulet. Has to be. But why isn’t it broken?” Alistair snapped his head up to look at Aedan, confused. “Where did you find it?”

Aedan shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable as he did. “It was on the desk in the arl’s study.”

“Oh. The arl’s study?” After their argument earlier, Alistair could understand why the other warrior might have wished to avoid mention of Redcliffe Castle. But if he’d found in the arl’s personal library then… “Eamon must have… found the amulet after I threw it at the wall. And he repaired it and kept it.” Alistair frowned, brow furrowing. “I don’t understand, why would he do that?

“Perhaps you mean more to him than you think.” Aedan nodded towards the amulet, his brow furrowed seriously. “Take it from me, Alistair – you don’t realize how much the people you consider to be your family mean to you until they’re no longer there.”

“I guess you could be right. I mean, you would know.” He looked down at the amulet in his hand, and rubbed his thumb across the engraved silver surface. “We never really talked that much, and then the way I left…” Alistair shook his head, looking up at Aedan with gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you. I mean it. I… thought I’d lost it to my own stupidity. I’ll need to talk to him about this, if he recovered from his... when he recovers that is. I wish I’d had this a long time ago.” There was a moment of quiet between them, both men lost in the melancholy that inevitably accompanied conversations recalling family. Alistair broke with it as a thought occurred to him. “Hey… Did you remember me mentioning it, all those weeks ago?” At Aedan’s nod, he broke out in a grin, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Wow. I’m more used to people not really listening when I go on about things.”

“Of course I remembered.” The look that Aedan gave him was mixed confusion and incredulity. “It was important to you. What matters to you matters to me, Alistair. You are my friend.”

“I… Thank you, Aedan. I’m honored.” Alistair felt like his face was going to split apart with how broad his smile was. He looked down at the amulet, the metal growing warm from the heat of his hand, and gave a soft chuckle. “Two surprises in one day – my mother’s amulet and Aedan Cousland has enough of a heart to have friends.”

Aedan rolled his eyes, and gave Alistair’s shoulder a less than gentle shove as he turned to walk back to his tent. “Ha ha, very funny. For that, you can go help Zevran with dinner. I’m sure he’d appreciate your wit when he needs to sharpen his knives again.”

“What? That makes no sense…. Wait a minute, are you calling my wit dull like a whetstone? Because that’s not very nice, Cousland…”


End file.
